


If the World Was Ending

by getoffmyhead



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Surprise Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29661222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyhead/pseuds/getoffmyhead
Summary: The one thing Sid thought he knew was that he wouldn't be saying goodbye to Geno. Jim had known better than to think about that one forbidden trade if he wanted to maintain his team cohesion. Even after Jim left, the new guy had been made aware. Sid didn't ask for much. When it came time to talk about extensions, if he played long enough to reach the end of his contract, Sid would come dirt cheap for the Penguins. He wanted one thing—to retire with Geno.Geno, apparently, did not feel the same way.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 197





	If the World Was Ending

Sid thought a lot about the summer Conor Sheary left, traded to Buffalo in some cap-saving move. Not because of the trade itself—that much had been run-of-the-mill for professional hockey—but because of Jake’s reaction to it. When he had arrived at camp the fall after the trade, it surprised Sid to find Jake’s sunny personality dampened by the absence of their third linemate. 

"You get used to saying goodbye to people," Sid said when he had suffered enough of Jake's sullenness. He had tolerated a few days of moping from Jake before the talk, hoping he would work it out independently. The newer guys always suffered the most from losing teammates. They felt it deep inside them, a wretched combination of personal loss and dread that the team would never be the same. So Sid had tried to wait it out, to give his young teammate time and space to get over it.

But the fourth time Jake complained that Sheary would have known where to catch his pass during a preseason scrimmage, Sid lost his patience. He needed to stamp it out before the games started. Otherwise, Jake's complaints might become excuses for bad plays. Instead of wishing for impossible things, Jake needed to move on and learn to play with someone new. He was wasting the preseason.

"I know Sheary was your friend," Sid continued, leaning with Jake against the cinderblock wall outside of the locker room where he had pulled him aside after skate. "But this is part of hockey. As a team, we have to adapt. Roll with it."

Perhaps it wouldn't have been so memorable a moment if Jake hadn't pushed back, irritably saying, "He was _your_ winger, too. You seriously don't care that he's gone?"

At once confused and angry, Jake's baleful frown stuck with Sid for a long time after that talk. Long after Jake had healed and learned to play with others, Sid sometimes thought about it and wondered.

It wasn't that Sid didn't _care_ about trades. It was just, after so many years in the NHL, he was used to it. He had long ago learned to land on his feet after the rug was pulled out from under him.

Sid's detachment about trades only got worse in the years after Sheary. He shook hands and patted shoulders and delivered his thanks to a rotating cast of stunned and disappointed faces—so many he lost count. Every week, it felt like there was a body missing from the locker room and a new name to learn.

The more he mulled Jake's accusation over, the more Sid preferred to think of himself as an optimist. Instead of putting his energy into saying goodbye, he was throwing himself wholeheartedly into greeting the replacement, welcoming them to the team. He never complained about trades, and Jim loved him for it.

Well, until Jim abruptly quit. Sid also didn't get worked up about that.

Tanger went to Seattle their very first year in the league, and Sid gave wry smiles to the cameras when the reporters asked him if expansion teams were ruining his life. "No, nothing like that. I'm glad to see the league growing."

Privately, Sid thought they might be onto something, that expansion teams had changed him. Maybe losing Flower had left a hole in him where his empathy had been. He couldn't clearly remember how he used to feel about trades before Vegas came along. They must have affected him once, at least when he was young like Jake.

The one thing Sid thought he knew was that he wouldn't be saying goodbye to Geno. Jim had known better than to think about that one forbidden trade if he wanted to maintain his team cohesion. Even after Jim left, the new guy had been made aware. Sid didn't ask for much. When it came time to talk about extensions, if he played long enough to reach the end of his contract, Sid would come dirt cheap for the Penguins. He wanted one thing—to retire with Geno.

Geno, apparently, did not feel the same way.

Geno didn't come back to Pittsburgh the last week of August like he usually did to prepare for camp. That was the first time Sid got a twist in his stomach, an unease. Something wasn't right, but he brushed the feeling away. Geno's schedule was probably thrown off by how close the league had come to locking out again. They didn't reach a new CBA until halfway through August. Maybe Geno had been bracing for a lockout and was scrambling to get back.

Sid texted Geno, asked him where they were going for dinner before camp to catch up, hoping to prompt him back sooner rather than later. He hated when Geno procrastinated and cut deadlines close.

Geno didn't text back. He called. The twist in Sid's gut pulled tight. Geno didn't call unless it was sensitive, important. He preferred to text.

"Hey G," Sid answered cautiously, and the deep breath on the other end verified his bad feelings. Whatever was coming, it was going to suck.

"Hi, Sid. You are home?"

"In my car, but I'm alone if that's what you're getting at."

It was. Geno needed him to be alone so Geno could break the news that he was not returning to Pittsburgh for the season. Sid sat with his hands on the steering wheel, staring at a concrete support beam in the parking garage while Geno rambled. He started counting the little cracks in the concrete, something sane to grasp onto while he lost the one person he was never supposed to lose.

Sid felt like he was at the end of his very own episode of the Twilight Zone, one where the protagonist thinks he can't feel anything anymore and is suddenly and ironically proven wrong. Sid had brushed off rookies' feelings for so many years, feeling nothing himself, only to get a cosmic wave of those emotions from Geno’s announcement.

Sid started to get tunnel vision and slammed his eyes shut. Geno was still talking. Sid hadn't listened past the first couple of sentences—enough to get the drift. Now, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and his ragged breathing.

His ears did clear up long enough to hear Geno say, "I'm sorry." That was when he gave some excuse and hung up, tossing his phone away from him and into the passenger seat.

For days after Geno's call, Sid felt numb. Not apathetic, the way he thought about normal trades, but more like how he felt after a rare night of heavy drinking. His brain felt cased in cotton, slow and unresponsive. He went about his routine as usual—skating, lifting weights, eating—but he felt like an observer watching his body do all of those things from a long way away.

Sid's phone rang at different times of the day, and Geno's contact popped up on the screen. He got less hesitant about hitting the reject call button. Later, he would shoot Geno a quick message about how busy he was while flipping channels or running a Swiffer under the couch on the trail of an errant dust bunny, but he couldn't handle another talk. He needed time to get his head around things.

But with camp rapidly approaching, Sid knew he had to shape up. After so many lectures to so many kids throughout the years, many of whom were still on the team, he couldn't show that he was falling apart from losing a teammate. They would roast him extra crispy if they caught a whiff of his emotional state.

Being on the ice felt pretty normal, so Sid took to skating a lot. It was more than advisable for someone his age. Andy made sure to tell him that, repeatedly reminding Sid that he wasn't a kid anymore and he needed to take care of his body. To appease Andy, Sid had to hit the gym more and eat more, which provided the bonus of adding more time to his daily routine. Sid kept himself nice and busy. Eventually, Geno's calls tapered off.

It was the day before camp when Sid got the notification that Geno had signed a one-year deal with Metallurg Magnitogorsk. All of the emotions he had been holding back broke down the door and tumbled out. So much for retiring, he thought with a sneer at his phone. Evidently, the problem wasn't with hockey but with Pittsburgh.

That morning, Sid took the ice alone for the last time before camp and poured a bucket of pucks out. He pulled a puck toward him and slapped it into the net, then grabbed another. He rocketed slap shots at the goal until his arms got tired. His shots grew wild and inaccurate, ricocheting off the glass or the boards.

With each shot, Sid grew angrier. He hated the league for cutting it so close to a lockout. They had given Geno a chance to talk to his team in Russia, to discuss playing the season with them. Geno hadn't said a word when he left Pittsburgh the previous season, so retiring from the NHL was something he had decided on in Russia. Sid hated the Penguins for not putting up more of a fight, insisting that their player should come back. He was under contract.

Sid felt a brief flash of hating the fans who had been ragging on Geno for years about his play, long before he had really started to deteriorate. His next shot blasted straight over the crossbar. The puck must have hit the glass just right because it cracked with an ear-splitting noise.

Sid stood panting over a small pile of remaining pucks. He watched the spiderweb of cracks widen over the whole pane and looked around. Nobody was around. He reached for another puck, pulled it toward him, and shot. The glass exploded, crumbling onto the ice and outward.

The primal satisfaction of breaking something edged almost immediately into guilt. Sid was putting his anger onto the wrong targets, inconveniencing the wrong people. This was it, the last temper tantrum he could justify. The next time he skated on this ice, it would be free of glass, and he would be with fifty other people. They would be looking at him for leadership.

Of course, he thought that about his teammates. He wasn't expecting the first person to lean on him to be his coach.

Sid dragged into the rink on the first day of camp, trying not to look as bleary-eyed and dead on his feet as he felt, only to find an ambush waiting for him. Sully leaned against the wall in the entryway of the facility, eyes scanning the room. When they locked on Sid, it was clear he had found his target.

"I'm sure you know," Sully said, falling into step with Sid. "About Geno."

Sid nodded. Sully had been his coach for a long time. His tenure with the club was in its twilight, and losing Geno was another blow to his leadership. He looked as exhausted as Sid, and camp hadn't even started.

"I just wish," Sully began and then stopped himself. He hunched over, hands in his pockets. The posture reminded Sid of a kid with a heavy backpack—as if there was too much weight on Sully's shoulders to handle comfortably while speaking. "He never said anything to me. I knew he was feeling rough, but—maybe I was too hard on him."

Sid wasn't used to seeing Sully question himself. He wasn't comfortable with it, wasn't sure why Sully would express his insecurity to Sid. He knew coaches weren't infallible, but they usually acted like it.

"Geno knows what he's doing," Sid said firmly with a tongue that fought against every word. "It wasn't you."

It wasn't _anything_. That much Sid knew. Geno had simply decided it was time and charged ahead with that plan. Because Geno took care of Geno—everybody else be damned.

Sid winced at his incredibly uncharitable thought, but he refused to feel guilty about it. Geno would play his first regular-season game with Metallurg in ten hours, and Sid wasn't terribly interested in being fair. He could keep himself under control in front of cameras and for fans and for the young players on his squad and apparently for coaches, but inside, in the solitude of his mind, he wanted to be angry. He wanted to burn up with fury, let it run like sweat down his skin while he pushed himself through drills.

Despite the hard first day of camp and the gym afterward and an afternoon jog, Sid couldn't sleep that night. He tossed and turned until morning—the day Evgeni Malkin made his triumphant return to KHL hockey.

Sid had asked around surreptitiously until someone young told him how to set up his TV with a VPN so he could stream KHL games. They had Russian commentary, but hockey was hockey. Sid pushed himself through breakfast and cardio and a shower, then turned the TV on, irritably found the snarling fox of Metallurg Magnitogorsk, and started the game.

Geno didn't exactly tear the ice up. Sid could admit that he hadn't in a while. He could see the gaps in Geno's play, the age of his knees in his strides. It brought some vindictive comfort to know that Geno wasn't saving all his best for his home town. Even in the KHL, where the pace was more methodical, Geno was struggling. The longer Sid watched, the more it doused the fire of his resentment until it was tamped down to a mere smolder.

After the game, Geno gave an interview just outside the ice. Sid didn't understand anything except "Pittsburgh." He wondered what Geno was saying—maybe that he was glad he left. Sid didn't think so, but who knew with Geno these days?

Before he rose to get ready for the day's camp activities, Sid grudgingly texted Geno: _Good game._

An hour later, he was about to leave the locker room to jump on the ice with his team when he got a response: _don't watch_

With his anger died down, Sid didn't have a shield against that kind of hurt. He breathed out slowly. His heart felt off-balance, like it was beating out of rhythm—atrial fibrillation, it was called. He'd learned the signs through NHL-mandated training. Surely, emotional harm couldn't cause a physical heart problem.

This was how things ended—like he had always coached his rookies. Life rarely happened like a movie. Sid wasn't sure what he had thought would happen. Geno would choose him over his home and move to Pittsburgh with him permanently?

Sid scoffed at himself. Ridiculous. He hadn't honestly expected that. He'd just hoped for—not this. Not Geno disappearing like smoke in the wind like he was never really here, so thoroughly ejecting Sid from his life that he didn't want Sid watching his hockey games.

Sid had a missed call from Geno when he got off the ice. He didn't call back. It was getting late in Magnitogorsk, and Sid didn't want to talk to him.

Sid kept watching Metallurg games because Geno could go to hell, but mostly because Sid missed him so much he would walk into the fire with him. Preseason games started, but Sid, thankfully, wasn't in many of them. He wasn't ready to play without Geno.

Geno gave another interview after the third game. Sid recorded it this time. He spent the next hour, through trial and error, Google translating what Geno said. He came up with gibberish, threw the pad across the room, and ordered the best real-time translator on the market instead with expedited shipping. He wanted—needed—to know what Geno was saying.

While Sid sat on his couch pouting about his failed attempt to translate, his phone rang. Geno's contact popped up. Sid gaped at the phone. He couldn't believe Geno was still trying. Sid hadn't answered in so long. He hesitated only a second and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sid. You watch?"

"You told me not to," Sid said petulantly.

Geno snorted. He obviously didn't expect Sid to respect his wishes on the matter. "You see in the third? No legs. It's horrible. I hate be old."

Sid blinked. What was this? Geno was calling like they were in the same locker room, commiserating about hockey together. "I thought you looked good," he said. His voice sounded choked.

"Lie, but thank you. You play soon?"

"Yeah. Next preseason game."

"Okay, I watch."

"Won't it be really early in the morning for you?"

"I make strong tea and watch. Want to be there."

Sid barely stopped the words— _Then why aren't you here?_ —from leaving his mouth.

They chatted amiably for a while before Geno had to go. It was late there, in Russia. He needed to go to sleep.

The translator arrived the next day.

Sid played back the interview he had recorded. It was just Geno talking about the game, answering banal questions with bland answers: the usual. Not satisfied, Sid dug through YouTube until he found Geno's first interview back in Magnitogorsk.

The translator wasn't perfect. It had a hard time when Geno mumbled, and it didn't pick up most of the reporters' questions, but it caught a few things Sid desperately needed to hear.

"Yes, I miss Pittsburgh," Geno said. "I played my best years there, and I love the city and the team. But the odometer on this body is getting high. I'm not sure how much I have left, and I promised I would retire on Metallurg's roster. I can't wait until I get hurt for that—it won't do anybody any good."

So, that was it. Geno was retiring. His hair was thin, and the lines around his eyes didn't just show up when he smiled anymore. He skated slow. He got up from hits even slower. It made sense that he would call it a day—a career.

Sid touched his own hair, more grey than brown at the sides now. If he let his beard come in, it would be flecked with silver. He had never been the speediest player on the ice, that wasn't his specialty, but he was noticing the rookies were getting quicker every year.

The translator kept going while Sid was lost in thought until it hit on something that got his attention again.

"Sid isn't human," Geno said, chuckling and looking so very fond. "He'll play forever. His knees don't hurt like mine."

Sid frowned. His knees _didn't_ hurt, but joints had never been his issue. Sometimes he lost track of his thoughts, got distracted. Sometimes he got headaches. It wasn't enough to keep him from playing yet, but it worried him when he let himself think about it.

He reached for his phone and opened Geno's contact to text him about the interview before he reconsidered. Geno had apparently settled into the fact that Sid was going to watch his games. He was okay with that much. He might not be as okay with Sid translating his interviews. Worse, he might start changing what he said if he knew Sid was watching. He might be more careful with his words. Sid put the phone down. 

When the NHL season officially started, Sid worked Metallurg's games into his new routine. On mornings with no skate, he stayed home to watch the game live. On practice days, he recorded them. He always watched.

And from the way Geno started texting after each Penguins game, he was doing the same thing. Mostly, his texts had nothing to do with the game itself—the Penguins were losing more than they were winning, on the edge of a long-overdue rebuild. But Geno always found something to say, a comment or joke or quip about somebody's clothing choices.

_tell Potash I hate beard_

Sid snorted. He was still in most of his pads and had only reached for his phone because he hoped Geno would text. _Trust me. We all told him._ Dan's newly-grown goatee had been a source of much chirping for the first part of the season.

_bad luck_

_You think that's why we're losing so much?_ Sid asked. He put in a winking emoji afterward.

_yes. I shave next season for him_

That made Sid blink in surprise. _You're coming back next season?_

Geno replied with a very unhelpful gif of a sassy girl in a dance costume with a caption: _Duh!_ What did he mean? Was he coming back to the Penguins? Had he decided not to retire? Sid's stupid heart broke its chains and floated up with resurgent hope.

But the hope felt too fragile to hand it over to Geno. Sid didn't trust him not to clarify, to say he wasn't coming back to Pittsburgh to play. He wasn't coming back at all. Instead of allowing Geno the opportunity to crush his rising optimism, Sid watched through the recorded interviews, searching for clues about Geno's intentions. He had said he was retiring in Magnitogorsk, but maybe only for KHL purposes. Perhaps he was closing the door on his future in Russian hockey so that he could play out whatever years he had left in Pittsburgh.

Sid watched the interviews so much he felt like he could quote Geno in Russian and came out with nothing more than speculation. But he had his hope. He held it tight, used it to push himself in games, and went on a points streak. If Geno was coming back, Sid had to make sure there was something left for him to come back to. The team had to come together.

Sid pushed his teammates at a brutal pace until November, when he pulled a hamstring and sat out for two weeks. Geno chuckled at his misery over the phone, delighted when Sid complained about not being able to work out or skate.

"Don't whine. It's only little bit injury. You be back so soon."

"Every injury is a big injury when you're almost forty," Sid said. His complaining was bordering on bitching now, which only made Geno guffaw harder at his plight. Sid could envision his big smile, his bright eyes. It put a pain in his chest to think about, so he turned the complaining on Geno. "I can't believe you're laughing at me after you were the one who called me a fucking superhero. This is probably your fault."

Geno stopped laughing, and Sid realized he had given himself away. Geno would figure out that Sid had been snooping on his interviews in Magnitogorsk. Sid could practically hear him thinking about when he might have said Sid was immortal. Finally, he asked, "You learn Russian?"

"Uh, no," Sid said, which was true. He could have left it at that, denied and doubled down, but he didn't want to lie. He cleared his throat. "I bought a translator to watch your games. For the commentary."

Thankfully, Geno didn't sound mad. His voice was full of a teasing smile when he said, "You need announcer to tell you when ice the puck? When score?"

"Maybe I like the color."

"Sure. Then listen to interviews is, like, just accident, huh?"

"Yep. I forgot to turn the translator off."

"How it work?"

"I have no idea. I didn't build the thing. I just know it's the one being used at the UN. State of the art."

"Go get. Put me on speaker. I want to see."

There was little Sid wouldn't do for Geno. His thigh gave a twinge when he limped into his den to get the translator. He settled onto the couch and put Geno on speaker, then turned the translator on.

"Okay, go."

Geno said something hesitant and short in Russian. After a small delay, the translator said, "How do I know if it works?"

"You speak English," Sid said, deadpan. "Surely you're the one to say whether it got the translation right."

Geno railed off something longer, and the translator started before he finished speaking. "You're damn right I speak English—better than this machine. Word-for-word translations don't get the meaning across. The emotion."

Sid leaned toward the translator as it spoke Geno's words in its strangely-accented, computerized voice. He could see what Geno meant about the translation. A lot was lost without Geno's tone, the sound of a smile or a frown tilting his voice one way or another. Sid couldn't help but wonder what Geno wanted to use the machine to convey, what emotion he thought it would fall short on.

"I'll give it credit," Geno continued, still in Russian—allowing the translator to do its job. "It works pretty good. Best I've seen. Does it go the other way? Switch to translate you to Russian."

Sid tinkered with the translator and managed to switch languages. "I've never used it this way before," he said, and the speaker began rattling off Russian syllables.

"You want naked _where_?" Geno gasped, but his voice was full of humor. "Just kid. It work good. You sound like robot."

Sid chuckled. "A _Russian_ robot, though."

"Sure. Russian robot." Geno paused and then, "You could use it here? It's small?"

"There, like in Russia?"

"Come visit, maybe."

"When would I find the time?"

Geno's silence sounded disappointed. "Sure, always busy."

"No. I mean, yeah. I'm busy. I don't know." Sid pulled in a breath and let it out slowly, wondering how much he should say. "I guess it's not really about time," he admitted.

He momentarily worried that Geno might take his admission of having time as an offer to visit, but he should have known better. Geno understood him too well to make that mistake. Instead, he spoke with heavy disappointment when he said, "So, not busy, but you not want to come?"

"No, I want to come. I've always wanted—but, G, come on. You know what it is. The way you left. I know the NHL was heading for a lockout, but then it didn't. And you still signed with Metallurg. You didn't tell me until after you'd already decided everything, gave me no warning. I just can't help but feel kind of betrayed here. Like you abandoned me."

Geno waited for the translator to get entirely done before he spoke. "I will _never_ leave you," Geno said emphatically, but Sid didn't understand how he could say that when he was already gone. "We are sometimes apart, but—fuck it, switch back. I need to say it right."

Sid had an easier time switching languages on the translator this time. "Okay, bud," Sid said, braced for whatever terrible thing Geno might say. "Hit me."

"Look, it's not that I didn't want to tell you about my plans—I _couldn't_. I couldn't tell you what I was planning because you would have talked me out of it."

"That's not fair," Sid said, hackles raised. "If you told me it meant something to you, I wouldn't have—"

Geno interrupted him in Russian, and Sid had to wait for the translator to catch up. "Yes, you would have. You _did_. I've wanted to retire for a while, and you keep talking me out of it. I love hockey, but it doesn't love me anymore. Every time I'm on the ice, I _hurt_. I'm tired, Sid. I know you don't understand."

The translator finished and left Sid in haunted silence. His eyes felt hot, tingling with shame at the realization that Geno was right. Sid had talked Geno out of retiring twice. The past two seasons, when Geno had grumbled about being done, Sid had ribbed him about it and egged him on, not stopping until Geno conceded that he would be back for camp. Sid hadn't allowed himself to consider that Geno might be serious. He had told himself that Geno was just being Geno—complaining, goofing around. He didn't mean he was done with hockey, that he wanted to leave their team behind.

Sid folded his hands in front of him and closed his eyes against a swell of emotional pain to say, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I just didn't want you to go. I didn't want to be alone."

"Oh, Sidney," Geno said. His voice sounded very heavy behind the robotic tone of the translator. "Someday, you're going to have to figure out that there's more to life than teammates."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Listen to yourself. You're talking like I died. Like I fell off the face of the Earth and abandoned you. I'm _right_ here, a phone call away. I still have a visa. We're both rich—traveling is not a problem. But because I'm not playing with you, I'm gone. That's how you think."

"What else am I supposed to think? It's not like you're here in the summer."

"Neither are you! Ask me. Ask me to go wherever you want, and I'll be there."

"Except Pittsburgh."

Geno sighed—an audible whoosh of frustration. "Turn it off. It's not helping. You don't understand me."

Sid felt like his hand moved in slow motion when he reached to turn the translator off. Without the buzz of the little machine, the room felt eerily silent.

"You watch games," Geno said, his voice low and even like he was trying to reason with an unruly toddler. "You see my play. Even in KHL, is slow. Too slow."

"That's not true, don't say that."

"Penguins don't need me."

"Yes, we do," Sid said hopelessly.

"No, Sid. I think _you_ need me. Penguins is glad to say goodbye for cap hit. They ask last year if I will retire. _You_ are upset I'm go—not team. Maybe, you think it's not because hockey."

The dangerous thing about playing with someone, practically living with them for six to nine months a year for twenty years was Geno could read him. He saw right through him, narrowed on the vulnerable parts, and dug in. Sid knew hockey. He knew Geno's play was weak and getting weaker, and he still wanted him to come back to the Penguins. Sid had said goodbye to everybody—Phil, Tanger, Cully—without so much as a tear, but losing Geno tore him apart.

God, it really wasn't about hockey.

"Sid?" Geno prodded after a while of silence.

Sid's voice cracked when he answered, "If you knew, why did you go?"

"It’s something I have to do. I make promise, long time ago. Then I'm free."

"Free? Free for what?"

"Bring little robot to Moscow in summer—I can show you."

Sid sniffed and ran a hand over his eyes. "Do you have feelings for me?"

"This is bad talk for phone. But yes, I always like you. Not just teammate. Is friend, is more. We figure it out."

There were things Sid never thought about with Geno while they shared a locker room. It was dangerous to let a crush take over, to look too long at Geno's lips. It simply wasn't a good idea. Sid never gave himself the freedom to think that way about any teammate, ever. He crushed it firmly underfoot, treated Geno as his best pal to keep from thinking of him as anything more than that. And apparently, Geno saw right through it.

Suddenly, the days Sid couldn't remember where he put his keys didn't feel quite so much like the end of his life.

"I don't know, G," Sid said with a tremble in his voice he couldn't contain. "Summer's a long way away."

"In hurry?"

"It's just—I never knew this was possible. You and me. More than friends." Sid said the last part quietly, heart in his throat, terrified at the irrational possibility that he had misunderstood somehow.

Geno's voice was full of relief. "Okay. My season over in February. We maybe don't make playoff. Two month—I come to Pittsburgh."

***

Geno played his last game of professional hockey at home in Magnitogorsk. They made a video package for him before the game, and he gave a grateful wave to his hometown crowd. Sid wished they could have done the same in Pittsburgh, but Geno would have hated it. He hated it in Magnitogorsk—he just didn't have a choice but to put up with it.

Sid fought against pestering Geno about keeping his promise to come to Pittsburgh after the season. After all, he hadn't meant right away. He probably had a lot to do back home before he could just up and leave.

Sid's route to the practice rink took him past Geno's house. It hadn't always. It was a new development this season, one of many new routines he'd picked up in Geno's absence. Three days after Geno's retirement ceremony, as Sid drove by the house, he noticed the gate was open. Sid swung off the road at the end of the driveway with his heart racing and pulled out his phone.

_Somebody supposed to be at your place?_

Geno shot back: _landscaper_.

Okay then. Sid's heart sank back into place, forlorn. Sid wanted to ask when Geno was coming, but Geno had been in and out of contact since the end of Metallurg's season. He was clearly feeling it. Sid didn't need to add more pressure.

Sid begged another half hour of ice time after practice while the Zamboni driver grew visibly impatient with him. He should care. It was the guy's job to keep the rink up. But Sid had his own turmoil to wrestle with, so he just worked his drills until he was dripping sweat and left the ice in his own time.

There was a buzz in the locker room. Sid could hear it before he reached the doors. People were still in there, laughing, talking. Sid's steps slowed to a stop outside, trying to get an idea of what he was walking into. That many giggles couldn't be anything good.

"Wild horses couldn't drag Sid off the ice," Jake said, a clear voice out of the melee. "How're you going to get him—a tranq dart?"

"Easy, you see," Geno's voice said, and Sid couldn't breathe. "He come with me no problem."

Geno walked out and froze at the sight of Sid standing there. His grin was full of mischief. "You almost catch me at house. I want surprise."

"I'm pretty fucking surprised," Sid said. His voice sounded strained, but he wasn't crying. That was something. "I didn't think you could come right away. I thought there would be stuff you had to do back home."

Geno shrugged. "I have lots to do at home. Like, have to open windows in house and fix battery in car and come to practice to get you off ice."

"This is home? Pittsburgh?"

"Where you live, huh?" Geno gave him a shy, hopeful little smile like he wasn't sure all the things they had said on the phone would count here, standing in front of Sid.

Sid took three steps to close the distance between them. It was weird to hug someone not wearing pads when he was fully decked out. Geno probably didn't appreciate the sweat, but he didn't push Sid away. He gripped him just as tightly until Sid couldn't resist pressing the bridge of his nose against the side of Geno's neck, breathing into the hollow of his throat.

"You smell good," Sid said, though it wasn't what he meant at all. He could hear the weight of the underlying emotions in his voice, and he knew Geno could too.

"I know," Geno replied, his voice just as husky but with a clear undertone of silly joy. "I wish _you_ also smell good. I come here late, I hope you are already shower, but—"

Sid nudged Geno's ribs with the knuckles of his glove, grinning against Geno’s skin even as his vision blurred with the new threat of tears. He blinked a few times before he let himself be seen, pulling away from Geno to face him. "How about I go take care of that, eh? Go clean up. Then we can go out if you want. Lunch?"

"Where?" Geno asked. He looked so delighted by his own fake reluctance—as if Sid wouldn't take him to the moon to make him happy.

"Anywhere you want."

"Okay, we go really nice place in city. You pay. I don't have job anymore."

"Yeah, of course. It's a date."

"Date," Geno said, rolling the word on his tongue like he enjoyed the feel. He worked his jaw contemplatively before the full force of his grin overtook his face. He looked like he'd won something—or spent a long time working toward it and finally succeeded. The last time Sid had seen that particular look had been when they were holding the Stanley Cup between them.

Sid knew he could stand there smiling at Geno for the rest of the day if he didn't tear his eyes away. He forced his feet to go toward the locker room doors, his skates thumping loudly on the rubber with each step.

"Sid," Geno called just as Sid got his hand on the door handle. When he turned back, he found Geno striding up to him with determination in each movement. It took Sid all the way until Geno's lips touched his to understand—a kiss. Geno was kissing him.

It was over far too soon. Sid leaned into Geno's retreat, lingering with their lips together until Geno pushed on his shoulder to anchor him. Geno was pink across the cheeks, looking thrilled and overwhelmed. Maybe that was why he had to sneak the kiss—he worried he wouldn't get the courage any other way.

"I thought we had to talk first," Sid said, which made Geno duck his head and shrug.

"Sure, we talk. But—" Another shrug preceded the sly beginnings of a smile that appeared when Geno's eyes came up again. "Come on. Maybe we don't like each other?"

It was a good point, one Geno had clearly thought out on the journey back from Russia. Sid couldn't argue the logic. Instead, he grasped Geno's shirt, pulling him in again. Their second kiss was as brief as the first. Sid tore himself away to retreat into the locker room.

They went out to eat downtown. As promised, Sid let Geno pick the restaurant, one of his favorites in Pittsburgh. It was the kind of place they had never been as teammates—upscale enough that it didn't serve parties of thirty—but Geno had invited Sid along a few times when his family was in town. Sid supposed he should have seen signs that their intimacy pushed the boundaries of friendship, considering how readily he had been included in Geno's personal life.

Geno wouldn't let Sid strike up the big conversation at dinner. He pouted about the expensive bottle of wine, complaining that it would sour if they brought the mood down, and Sid allowed him to change the subject. Instead of contemplating their future together, Geno told him about a fishing trip in Siberia that nearly put him off the sport forever, shivering away in a little tent while he and three teammates had huddled around a small hole in the ice.

"It's better in Florida, eh?" Sid asked, still chuckling at Geno's spirited retelling of the adventure.

"Much better. We go right away—after you win Cup."

Geno knew as well as Sid that the Penguins weren't making the playoffs. Somehow, in the candlelight with the wine in his hand and Geno's smile across the table, that didn't seem so bad. Instead of commenting on the team, Sid asked whether Geno had kept his condo, which transitioned into plans to play beach bum on the island as long as they wanted while the sun baked their cares away that summer.

By the time they left the restaurant, they were both too buzzy to have a real talk about their future. They were probably also too buzzy to be going home with each other, but Sid justified it. It was only one bottle. He had seen Geno much drunker.

They went to Sid's house by mutual agreement, pretending like they were only going to watch a movie. The pretense failed when Geno kicked off his shoes and proceeded directly toward Sid's bedroom instead of taking the stairs to the basement lounge. Geno knew where the TV was. He was going the other way, refusing to cater to the fantasy that their intentions were pure to begin with.

Sid followed him.

Geno didn't let Sid bring up serious topics as the first awkward kisses on the bed turned smoother with experience. He wouldn't hear anything about their future when Sid tried to squeeze it in while unbuckling Geno's belt. He used Sid's shirt against him, pulling it up over his head when Sid started rushing words about commitment and announcements of their intentions to friends and family.

"Sid," Geno finally said when Sid persisted, pulling back to grin at him. "It's fine. I'm here."

Sid could have said that Geno was the one who demanded that they talk in person before so much as considering a relationship. He could have insisted, pushed back on Geno's chest, and forced the issue. But maybe it was always playacting, the idea that they would not be compatible, that they needed to weigh the pros and cons. Maybe Geno just got to that realization before Sid.

Instead of pressing, Sid allowed himself to be moved on the bed, pulled and prodded until his hips found a seat between Geno's thighs. By the time Geno got a hand on him, he was far too worked up to worry about the future.

Only afterward, dozing in the soft glow of the corner fireplace, did Geno say anything. "I tell my family I’m come back. I say, I have house in Pittsburgh. I like it here. My mother don't believe me. She say I only want live in Pittsburgh for you. She say I always love you."

"Is she wrong?"

Geno's shoulder moved under Sid's cheek—a shrug. Sid levered up to find him fighting a grin, eyes glowing. "I don't know. Give time, it’s only _one_ date.”

Geno said it with such joyous satire, conveying the opposite of his words. He knew how he felt, and he obviously knew Sid’s feelings, too. Sid's season alone had pulled the curtain back and left him exposed, open for Geno to read everything.

"How about I give you another twenty years?" Sid offered slyly. "Same as how long we played. Then you have to make up your mind."

"That not so long," Geno said, voice full of feigned contemplation. "Maybe I can't decide."

"Well, tough. Twenty more years is all I got for you. Maybe another twenty after that."

"Maybe, okay. I can think and decide. Maybe someday I love you."

The fondness of Geno's words, curved and softened by his smile, made Sid feel out of breath. "I'll keep my fingers crossed," he said in barely more than a whisper. 

When he held up his fingers to demonstrate, Geno grasped his hand and touched the tip of each finger to his lips, one at a time. "For luck," Geno explained. The warmth from his eyes pulled sweetly at his mouth until Sid couldn't resist leaning down to kiss him.


End file.
